


Aftermath: The Christmas Album

by geekmama



Series: Aftermath [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Sherlolly, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Family Feels, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-01 02:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13285404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Side A:  1.I'll Be Home For Christmas, 2.The Holly and the Ivy, 3.O Tannenbaum, 4.The Gloucestershire Wassail, 5.It Must Have Been The Mistletoe, 6.Deck the HallsSide B: 1.The Boar's Head Carol, 2.Caroling, Caroling, 3.There Is No Rose of Such Virtue, 4.We Three Kings of Orient Are, 5.The Twelve Days of Christmas, 6.Welcome Christmas





	1. Side A

 

**_I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me…_ **

 

“It was easier, before,” he muttered as they rounded a corner of the narrow country lane and his parents’ home came into view.

“You mean when you were a _high functioning sociopath_?”

Sherlock’s peripheral vision had apparently caught her air quotes and suppressed laughter. “I mean, Miss Malapert, when easier meant a quiet Christmas at Baker Street.”

“ _Miss Malapert_? You sound like my maiden aunt.”

“You don’t have a maiden aunt.”

“Yes, I do.” Molly looked down her nose at him, raised her brows, and said in pretentious accents, “She has blue hair and is frightfully posh. You’d get along swimmingly.”

“Liar.”

She grinned. But then said, thoughtfully, and far more soberly, “I haven’t really been to a Christmas at 221B since that one time.”

He frowned as he pulled up in front of the house, and after he’d shut off the motor he turned to her. “I know that. And it… the incident still upsets you? Though I admit, my apology was insufficient.”

She shouldn’t have given voice to it, for now the scene came rushing back to her in detail: the excruciating embarrassment, followed by shock -- everyone’s, not only that he’d actually apologized, but that she had finally had the nerve to stand up for herself. The memory of his lips against her cheek. And then… “Well, that text alert didn’t help matters.”

He grimaced. “No.”

This was ridiculous. It was neither the time nor the place to dredge up ancient history. She said bracingly, “You can make it up to me tonight. I’ll sneak into your room.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, to show him the past was past.

“Why would you have to do that?”

“But… you don’t think--”

“Molly, my parents are quite aware that our cohabitation is far from innocent. We’re engaged to be married, for god’s sake -- and you’ve already held out the lure of grandchildren, remember? Of course we’ll be assigned the same room.”

She blinked, processing the idea of them sharing the bed he’d slept in as a child. But then her lips quirked. “ _Cohabitation_? Another maiden aunt word?”

“I felt it expressed our deliciously sinful arrangement more accurately than just ‘living together’.”

She began to chuckle, her heart warming at the amused light in his eyes. It was sinful, indeed, how much she loved this man, had always loved him, and enjoyed his company. She added, happily, “And our wedding is just around the corner, of course.”

“Please don’t remind me.”

“Oh, Sherlock!” she protested, cast down again.

“Are you certain we can’t elope?” But then he relented. “Alright, don’t look like that. Come here. It was a long drive and it’s been bloody hours since we last kissed.”

Impossible man, she thought, scowling, but moved to comply.

How things had changed between them.

It was a good kiss… a _very_ good kiss… and they were still immersed in it when there came a rap on the window and his father’s muffled but cheery voice: “Now, now! Time for that when you get inside! Your mother has tea and mince pies all ready!”

Molly giggled. “Mince pies -- your favorite!”

“Nothing less would make up for the intrusion,” Sherlock said, grimly, but his smile was irrepressible.

 

**❈**

 

**_Of all the trees within the wood, the holly bears the crown…_ **

 

“Oh, lord. It looks as though a Christmas bomb exploded.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too, my son,” his mother said, very wry, as she came into the foyer to greet them. Then her smile grew warmer. “And Merry Christmas, Molly. You look lovely in that jumper.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Sherlock murmured, though his eyes laughed.

Molly said to Millicent Holmes, “Thank you -- and just ignore him, ma’am, your house looks beautiful. Is the holly from your garden?”

“It is! Vernet fetched in the cuttings just yesterday.”

“Well, it’s lovely -- very tastefully done.”

“Except for _that!_ ” Sherlock exclaimed with disapprobation as he strode past them and into the living room. He pointed at a group of framed photos pinned to the wall -- and not just any frames, but childish ones, carefully constructed of various papers, yarn, and glitter.

And not just any photos. “Is that you?” exclaimed Molly, coming up behind him and delighting in a portrait of an innocently smiling, curly headed little boy in shorts. “Sherlock, you were adorable! And Mycroft -- look, there are two photos of him, and he’s holding you in this one, you were so little! And is this--”

“Eurus,” Sherlock said. He looked at his mother.

She looked straight back at him, but sounded a little uncertain as she replied, “In happier days.”

Sherlock considered this, then nodded. “Hidden away too long.” He looked at his sister’s picture, then at the entire grouping. “Did… _I_ make these frames?”

His mother smiled. “You did! You were so artistic as a boy. Mycroft, too. I found two ornaments and a little tree he made me. Styrofoam and pasta shapes and gold glitter. Before you were born.”

Sherlock’s eye held a satisfied glint. “You’ll have to show Lady Smallwood when she arrives.”

Millicent chuckled, but said, “Alicia may have helped him make them, for all I know. She did babysit for us, off and on, for a number of years.”

“Mmm.”

Sherlock looked around the room, now, and Molly could see he was pleased. She slipped her hand into his and said, “Admit it: you’re glad to be home.”

But Millicent said, “I’m very sure you being here with him will make it seem more homelike than it has in many years.”

Sherlock turned to his mother in surprise, and she returned his gaze with a look of tender understanding.

Molly, moved, bit her lip.

But then Millicent smiled, and said briskly, “Come! Let’s repair to the kitchen and drink that tea while it’s hot!”

 

**❈**

 

**_O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, how richly God has decked thee…_ **

 

“I’ve taken your bags up to Sherlock’s old room,” Vernet Holmes said, coming in when Sherlock was on his third mince pie.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Molly protested. “We could have done it.”

“It was my pleasure,” Vernet said with great sincerity, sitting down  at the table as his wife poured out a cup of tea for him. “Ah! Thank you, my dear.” He took a sip, then said to Sherlock and Molly, deceptively bland, “I do hope that bed will be big enough for the two of you. It’s only a small double. But we had to give the guest room to Mycroft and Alicia, since his old bed is a single.”

“We’ll be fine,” Sherlock said, giving Molly a rather cheeky smile.

“I daresay you’ll contrive,” Vernet said, a twinkle in his eye. He picked one of the little star-topped pies from the plate in the center of the table and took a bite, closing his eyes in ecstasy. “Delicious!” he said to his wife, when he finally could. “My dear, you’ve surpassed yourself. This pastry is divine! But should we save some for Mycroft?” He looked askance at his son, who’d just picked up a fourth pie.

“No,” said Sherlock, and took a bite.

“No,” Millicent agreed, placidly. “I’m making another batch presently, so they’ll be fresh for him and Alicia.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but made no further objection, his mouth being full of pie.

*

After they were refreshed and Millicent had risen from the table to start on that second batch, Sherlock led Molly upstairs and down the hall to his old room.

“The room hasn’t been changed from when I was still in school, I’m afraid,” he warned her.

“Like a shrine to young Sherlock?”

He gave a crooked grin. “Something like that.” But then he opened the door, stopped on the threshold and stared. “Good god.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Molly finally jostled him aside and then gave a crow of delight. “A tree! They’ve put a Christmas tree in your room!”

“ _Our_ room,” Sherlock corrected, stalking in behind her. “And not only a tree. Where the devil did they get this duvet set?”

“Oh, it’s lovely!” Molly exclaimed, taking in the red striped pattern featuring trees, reindeer, hearts, and stars on a snowy white background. “It’s like my jumper!”

“It’s far worse, since there’s so much more of it. What was my mother _thinking?_ ”

“That it’s Christmas?” Molly went over to the corner of the room where the little tree stood glowing, covered with fairy lights, strings of beads, and tinsel garland. “It makes the whole room smell of pine forest! And did you make some of these ornaments?”

Sherlock came to stand beside her, and she saw that he was trying hard not to smile. He said, “Yes. And the rest appear to be some that were given to me by various friends and relatives when I was a child. I had no idea they’d saved them all these years.”

Molly slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze. “Your parents love you very much.”

Sherlock’s eyes met hers and his half smile faded. She could see that he was barely able to fathom how such love had remained evergreen in spite of the many ways he had tested it through the long years.

They both sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the tree.

“We must thank them,” Molly said, presently. She leaned against his shoulder.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, and bent his head to hers.

 

**❈**

 

**_Wassail, wassail all over the town…_ **

 

After recovering from her surprise that not only Molly but Sherlock himself had embraced her and expressed thanks for their bedroom’s holiday decor, Millicent Holmes sent the two children out on an errand.

“I must have ground cardamom, I’m making that lovely Swedish Christmas Bread for breakfast tomorrow. It’s still early enough that the shops will be open in the village. Can you two go get some for me, please?

“We’d be glad to,” said Molly. “I’d love to see the village dressed for the holidays!”

Sherlock said to Molly, with a sly look at his mother, “You see? I told you it was traditional to be sent on a wild goose chase for some obscure commodity on Christmas Eve.”

Millicent smacked him on the arm and said, “That’s the least you can do, you impudent snatch-pastry.”

“Ha! Another maiden aunt word,” Sherlock exclaimed, but ducked behind his prospective bride in a most cowardly fashion to escape further retribution.

*

“They’ve been gone an awfully long time,” Millicent said, trying to keep worry from her tone. After all, what could happen to them in the wilds of Suffolk?

“Sherlock is probably just showing her the sights,” Vernet tutted. But he left the kitchen, wandering into the living room to peer out the window, into the fading afternoon. Then, after a minute or two, he called, “Here they come now!” and Millicent gave a sigh of relief -- which was ridiculous, of course.

But still.

She wiped her hands on a towel and joined her husband in the living room, to greet the prodigals, and arrived in time to see that Molly had been driving, and that Sherlock staggered a bit as he exited the car. There was also a suspiciously fatuous smile on his face.

“Good God!” said Sherlock’s father. “But he wouldn’t… not with Molly right there!”

But the two of them actually began singing as they approached the door, Molly’s light soprano a charming contrast to Sherlock’s booming baritone harmony...

 

 _Wassail! Wassail all over the town!_  
  
_Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown;_  
  
_Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree;_  
  
_With the wassailing-bowl, we'll drink to thee!_

 

“What on earth!” Millicent exclaimed in delight. They hadn’t heard Sherlock sing in years! And when Vernet opened the door the two kept right on singing as they entered the house, Sherlock looking inordinately happy and slightly bleary, and Molly positively glowing.

Millicent’s boy turned to Molly and pulled her into a dance, waltzing her around the foyer and living room until finally they both collapsed laughing on the sofa.

Vernet had closed the door, and now said to the giddy pair, “It appears you’ve been doing some wassailing yourselves.”

“Every shop had a bowl of punch!” said Sherlock happily.

“And there were several groups of carolers!” said Molly. “It was the most wonderful thing! I could’ve listened for hours!”

“But we didn’t,” said Sherlock, reaching into his pocket for the packet of spice. He held it out to his mother in triumph.

Millicent took the packet, not quite laughing. “Thank you, both of you. I particularly appreciate you driving Sherlock home, Molly. It seems he did a bit more wassailing than you?”

“No, not at all,” she said, matter-of-factly, though her eyes danced. “He just can’t hold his liquor.”

“Can too!” Sherlock objected, his smile disappearing for the first time.

“Nope,” Molly said, exaggerating the final ‘P’ as Sherlock sometimes did.

The light of battle was kindled in Sherlock’s eyes, and his smile returned in a rather more mischievous form.

His father said, quickly, “Now, now! Perhaps you two had better retire for a bit, have a nap.”

“Sleep it off,” said Millicent, never one to mince words.

“Yes,” Vernet agreed. “Mycroft and Alicia won’t be here for a couple of hours yet, and mother is just finishing up some baking. It’ll be a good chance for the two of you to… ah… rest.”

“What an excellent idea,” said Sherlock. He hauled himself to his feet, swaying only a little, and pulled Molly up after him. He said scornfully as they headed toward the stairs, “Can’t hold my liquor! Ha!” and he actually gave Molly a swat on the arse just before they disappeared from sight. Her outraged objection was mixed with laughter, and then she gave a little screech and from the sound of it the two were running up the remaining stairs and down the hall.

Millicent turned to her husband and found her disbelief reflected on his countenance. Then they both began to laugh, and after a warm hug, retreated in good order to the kitchen to savor the moment.  

 

**❈**

 

**_It must have been the mistletoe…_ **

 

Molly turned to him as soon as they were through the door.

“No!” she said, trying not to smile, her finger raised in warning.

He halted immediately and stood there, swaying a bit, considering her, shoving the door shut in the meantime. The click of the latch waked something in him and he turned and also set the lock. Then he turned back to her and said, “Yes.”

She almost laughed. “No!”

He came slowly toward her, and she backed away – toward the bed.

“But yes!” he told her. “You have to.”

“I don’t,” she said, chin raised. “Why should I?”

He advanced (and she retreated) just a little more, and then he stopped and looked up toward the ceiling.

She followed his gaze and gave a slight gasp. “Mistletoe!”

It was, tied with a red ribbon to the overhead light fixture -- and coincidentally, hanging over the foot of the bed.

And she’d been caught, now, distracted by the sight of those green leaves and white berries and perhaps by the thought that they’d been placed there with set purpose by his outrageously liberal minded mother. Distracted, and he had stepped just close enough to trap her. With a smile at her sudden surprise, he drew her close against him, said, “Yes!” again, in a voice dark and soft as velvet, then bent his head, and kissed her.

 

**❈**

 

**_See the blazing Yule before us…_ **

 

Vernet Holmes prided himself on his ability to build a fire, and when Mycroft and Alicia Smallwood arrived an hour after sunset on that cold Christmas Eve, that skill was much appreciated.

“Heavens, it’s freezing out there!” exclaimed Alicia, trotting up to hold her hands to the blaze.

“Quite literally,” Mycroft added, taking off his coat. “There’s a chance of snow tonight, and there is ice on the roads as we speak. I’m certainly glad we left London when we did. Any later and it would have been exceedingly dangerous driving.”

“Perhaps we’ll have a White Christmas this year,” mused Vernet. “But you two sit down and warm yourselves by the fire. Mummy’s bringing in tea -- unless you’d like something stronger? No? And fresh mince pies -- Sherlock’s not up from his nap yet, so you’ll have them all to yourselves.”

“His nap?” Mycroft laughed.

Vernet put his finger to his lips. “Mummy sent him and Molly to town and they were a trifle overserved. Or Sherlock was, at least.”

Mycroft nodded and, after his father had gone to the kitchen to help Mummy, he explained to Alicia, “Sherlock so rarely drinks alcoholic beverages that it takes surprisingly little to inebriate him.”

“As long as it _was_ only alcohol,” Alicia said with a grimace.

Mycroft chuckled. “I’m fairly sure Molly would have his head on a platter if he indulged in anything more addictive at this point.”

“Yes, she would,” said Molly herself, coming into the room, following by Sherlock who was glaring, but rather mildly.

The two looked quite cheerful, actually. Apparently it had been a very refreshing nap.

Molly added, “And the rest of him might _never_ be found, who knows? But that’s why he loves me, after all. How good it is to see you, Alicia… and you, Mycroft.”

“Merry Christmas, Alicia,” Sherlock said, with a smile.

Alicia raised a brow.

“I’m full of the spirit of the season,” Sherlock said, sounding facetious but looking at Molly with a warmth that could not be mistaken.

And Molly actually blushed as she returned his regard.

“Well, this is something different for the holidays,” Mycroft said, looking from one to the other. “I knew you’d tamed him somewhat, Molly, but this seems quite extraordinary.”

“Not at all, Blood,” Sherlock said succinctly. “Molly merely has the ability to keep me right.” He sat down beside her on the sofa and took her hand.

“Well! Peace on earth, good will toward men, by all means!” said Mycroft. But just then, Mummy and Dad came through the door with the tea tray and a heaped plate of mince pies, fresh from the oven. Mycroft turned to Sherlock. “If you spoil my enjoyment of those pies in _any way_ , brother mine, you will deeply regret it. Decapitation will be the least of it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to voice some irreverent retort, but Molly jabbed him with a sharp elbow. He exchanged a glance with her, then sighed in defeat and said, “Oh, alright, then.”

Mycroft and Alicia exchanged a glance, too. Perhaps peace and good will would not be out of the question this Christmas.

 

 

_To be continued on Side B…_

 


	2. Side B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Side B:** 1\. _The Boar's Head Carol_ , 2. _Caroling, Caroling_ , 3. _There Is No Rose of Such Virtue_ , 4. _We Three Kings of Orient Are_ , 5. _The Twelve Days of Christmas_ , 6. _Welcome Christmas_

 

       

**_The boar’s head in hand bear I, bedecked with bay and rosemary…_ **

 

What with finishing up the baking, it was well past eight when they all sat down to dinner. Molly, who had helped Millicent with the final preparations, looked with satisfaction and considerable awe at the table, candle-lit and sparkling with silver, crystal glassware, and a really astonishing set of china -- including some very wide, elegant soup bowls.

“Lobster Bisque! How deliciously decadent,” Alicia remarked. “And this bread! How on earth do you do it all, Millicent?”

“Oh, this is just like playing,” Millicent said, very offhand. “We still belong to that gourmet club, you know, and those dinners get _very_ elaborate. But you’ll see something similar to those tomorrow. I’ve planned quite the Christmas feast for us.”

Vernet began to hum a familiar tune as he poured out the wine, and Molly giggled.

Sherlock said, “Good God, it’d better _not_ be a boar’s head.”

Millicent smiled. “You may rest easy, my son. We have turkey this year, which can be a bit boring, I know, but I’ve brined it and it will be roasted with herbs, and with an assortment of mushrooms in the stuffing and gravy. And various sides, more or less traditional: Brussels Sprouts with pancetta, a melange of braised julienne root vegetables, some nice creamy mashed potatoes. And fresh rolls. And a cranberry chutney. And a cheeky little appetizer I think you’ll like, a sort of reimagined prawn cocktail. All fairly straightforward, but with a bit of flair. And Christmas Pudding for dessert -- I hadn’t made one of those in years, but I thought I’d do it for your father’s sake, he always did enjoy a Christmas pud, all flaming, and served with that vanilla custard sauce, do you remember, Sherlock? The one you drank off in its entirety right before we were supposed to sit down to dinner that one year? I think you were five. I wanted to be angry with you, but you were so ill afterwards and so very pitiful -- and we had guests from your father’s company that year, too, a vice president and his wife or some such, childless, I believe, and there you were, groaning and weeping and vomiting by turns for a good hour at least, it quite put that VP off his feed as well as discouraging any urge he might have had to procreate. And… but what’s the matter?”

Millicent, who had been rattling on while she ladled up the bisque, had finally noticed that Sherlock was looking very odd. A bit narrow-eyed. Possibly a bit daggery.

He said (or growled, really), “Now I remember why I don’t come home for Christmas!”

Millicent looked quite taken aback, but Molly (and everyone, save Sherlock and his mother) burst out laughing. As soon as she could, Molly said, “Oh! Oh, no! Sherlock, don’t say such things! To think, you were as human as all the rest of us when you were little!”

“ _I_ wasn’t,” Mycroft objected, though he was still chuckling.

But Alicia said, “Oh, yes you were. I think both Millicent and I might have a story or two to tell on _that_ score.”

“No, no!” Vernet protested. “We’ve had enough of that for now. Don’t tease the boys anymore, I beg you -- or at least not until we’ve enjoyed this excellent bread and soup and wine. And Sherlock, there will be more mince pies if you don’t care for vanilla sauce and Christmas Pudding tomorrow, and chocolates, too. All will be well.”

“ _All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well_ ,” quoted Molly, sing-song, and she took Sherlock’s hand in her own to give it a squeeze.

“Are you quite certain of that?” He raised a skeptical brow.

“ _Very_ certain,” she said, her eyes soft upon him, and barely smirking at all, really.

 

**o-o-o**

 

**_Joyous voices sweet and clear sing, the sad of heart to cheer…_ **

 

Between the six of them, the dinner things were cleaned up and put away in short order, and then there was music, thanks to the ladies’ insistence and several bottles of wine. Sherlock had actually needed very little persuasion to bring his violin for this very purpose, and Molly insisted, too, that Alicia take the piano by right as the most accomplished player among them (Mummy already having bowed out with a “No, no! I’m far too rusty!” and Dad giving precedence to the ladies with one of his twinkling smiles). Alicia consented, Mummy hauled out a familiar old book of carols, and they all started in, even Mycroft, beginning with _Adeste Fideles_ and continuing straight on through, in alphabetical order, skipping over a few they didn’t care for, but completing a surprising number and ending, appropriately, with _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_.

“Oh, lovely!” Mummy exclaimed when Sherlock finished the song with a flourish. “I think that was an amazing performance by each and every one of us. Mycroft, your voice is every bit as true as it was when you were a boy and we’d come to see your school performances.”

“I thank you kindly,” Mycroft said, with the most carefree smile Sherlock had observed on him in a long time and made a note to encourage his brother to drink more often. He went on, cheerily, “I always enjoyed the choir -- I was no soloist, of course, but there’s nothing like being part of a powerful, harmonious entity, roaring out _Ode to Joy_ or _I Vow To Thee My Country_.”

Mummy kissed Mycroft’s cheek, and then Sherlock’s, too. “My brilliant boys!”

“And their beautiful ladies, who give such valuable encouragement,” Dad said, with that smile again. “But I believe we need to sing one more song. Take a look!”  He had wandered over to the window, and now he held aside the drape so they could all see.

“Snow!” exclaimed Molly in delight. “It’s snowing!”

“Oh!” said Mummy. “How beautiful!”

They all gathered at the window to look at the fat, perfectly formed flakes that were drifting down in the windless night.

All except Sherlock. Dad was correct, one more song was needed, and setting his bow to the strings he played...

 

 _I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know..._     

 

 

**o-o-o**

 

**_There is no rose of such virtue…_ **

 

Mummy, now thoroughly intoxicated with the spirit of the season, expressed a sudden wish to go to the midnight service at St. Mary’s and, with Molly and Alicia present, it was a _fait accompli_. Dad, when applied to in the faint hope he’d veto the expedition in consideration of the weather, expressed the opinion that they’d be fine, the snow had barely begun to accumulate, and they’d all be back in an hour and a half and more grateful than ever for the cozy house and their soft beds.

Sherlock exchanged a look of mild exasperation with Mycroft while the ladies and Dad hurried upstairs to primp, put on proper shoes, and find their coats and scarves. The brothers knew it was a lost cause, however, and, moreover, had discussed it a fortnight since. Considering the drama, heartbreak, and changes that had taken up most of the last year, Sherlock and Mycroft were determined to do everything possible to make this year’s Christmas a good one for their parents. Therefore, Mycroft poured out a stiff tot of brandy for each of them, and they downed it in stoic silence.

o-o

There were a great many of the local people for whom the midnight service at St. Mary’s was a highlight of the year, and the carpark was already crowded when the Holmes party arrived, Sherlock driving the hired Land Rover very slowly as there were also many villagers making their way to the church on foot. Enough snow had fallen to form a thin but all-encompassing blanket, and it effectively reflected what light there was, revealing shining eyes and wide smiles on the bundled-up church-goers as they made their way toward the grey stone edifice, its stained glass windows brilliant as jewels in the night, and a welcoming golden glow streaming from open doors flanked by Christmas trees thick with fairy lights.

Sherlock couldn’t help thinking Molly adorable as he helped her alight from the car, and her own smile returned his regard in a most inspiring fashion. He managed to restrain the urge to sweep her close and kiss her senseless, however, merely tucking her hand under his arm and, following the rest of their party, led her into the stream of people.

He had a very odd feeling as he entered the church. Happiness? A strange sense of rightness, rather like coming home? He had spent many a Sunday morning here, as a boy, though he remembered it more as being trapped and bored rather than comforting. There was certainly something to be said for the wider understanding of maturity.

The church was large enough to hold a few hundred persons, and it was at present exuberantly decorated for the season with greenery, ribbon, flowers, and several more star-topped, fairy-lit trees shining in the sanctuary. There was also an almost excessive crèche displayed at the eastern end of the nave, the Holy Family on one side, watched over by the requisite angel, shepherd, and various domestic livestock, and the three Magi on the other, accompanied by both a camel and an elephant, the whole entourage dressed to the nines.

The ladies were enchanted by the crèche and abandoned their escorts to hurry forward and take a closer peek. Sherlock’s father said, “I do like that elephant!”, and Mycroft exchanged a wry look with Sherlock but wisely kept his own council as to the likelihood of the Wise Men bringing such an animal to Bethlehem.

It was not long before they all noticed that the church was rapidly filling. In fact, they ended up finding places in the south transept (maintaining a good view of the elephant), though there was not room for the six of them and Sherlock and Molly sat in the row of pews behind the others.

They found themselves seated next to another couple, very young, probably early twenties, who nevertheless were married (white gold rings, princess cut diamond and diamond chips, total weight less than one carat, price low to moderate) and expecting their first child. _Imminently_ expecting. In fact, after smiling a greeting to Sherlock and Molly, the girl’s expression suddenly shifted to something more inward, and edged with some slight discomfort, if not fear.

“Are you well?” Molly asked quickly. She was seated beside the girl, and now held out a tentative hand.

The girl summoned a smile, but ignored the hand in favor of leaning against her husband a bit. “Oh! Oh, yes. It’s just a little indigestion, I think,” she replied in a soft voice. Her husband put his arm around her, looking rather worried himself. The girl set her own hand protectively over the substantial arc of her stomach.

The quiet music of the organ now proceeded to swell and the choir launched into their first song, _Hark the Herald Angels Sing_. The service began.

o-o

A half hour later, it was evident to both Sherlock and Molly that the girl beside them was actually in labor. Every few minutes she had shifted uncomfortably on the hardwood pew and clutched her husband’s arm just a little tighter. The last time this had happened she had looked up at him just a little desperately, but though he’d asked her quietly if she thought they should leave, she ultimately shook her head and said, “No… no, the service will soon be over. I… if it _is_ time, it will probably be hours and hours yet. Please let’s stay.” The boy patted her hand and gave her an encouraging smile.

But five minutes later, the girl gave a little start, suddenly sitting up straight with a panicked expression, and then bit her lip, sagging against her husband again with a soft groan.

“Mary!” her husband whispered, obviously in an agony of worry.

And when she could finally speak, the girl said, “I’m sorry! I… I think my water’s broken. Oh, _Joe!_ ”

Mary and Joseph? Sherlock gave a small snort of startled amusement, and Molly turned to give him a (laughing) glare before rounding on the young couple again.

“Come!” she whispered, “Everything will be fine. Let us help you out of here and we can call for an ambulance, if you think it necessary.”

“Yes!” said Joe, “I mean… I don’t know.”

But Mary said, with decisive resignation, “The birthing clinic is only five miles from here, and I have my bag -- we’ve been carrying it everywhere for the last two weeks.”

“Very wise,” Sherlock said, and noted with pleasure that the congregation was in the process of standing up to sing. “Let’s make our escape, shall we?”

The young couple rose and were able to slip quietly out of the pew, taking their leave with a minimum of fuss. Sherlock and Molly followed close behind, more or less shielding Mary’s wet coat from sight, and presently the four of them were stepping out the doors and into the chilly, starlit night.

Sherlock closed the church door quietly and turned back to the distressed pair -- and they were indeed distressed, Mary now leaning heavily against Joe and breathing in quick little pants.

As soon as the girl was somewhat recovered, Molly said, “Joe, call the emergency number of the birthing center while we help Mary to your car.”

“Yes, yes! Of course!” Joe said, letting Molly and Sherlock remove Mary from his side.

They slipped their arms about her, murmuring soothingly, as the young man fumbled for his mobile and managed to make the call. Then they followed him out to the car (a used Vauxhall Zafira, recently purchased in preparation for this blessed event, no doubt) as he communicated with the birthing center in the determined but obviously terrified manner common to prospective fathers everywhere.

He ended the call and turned to them, though he only had eyes for his poor slip of a wife. “The birthing team will be there before we are!” he said. “Let’s get you into the car!”

“Oh, no!” said Mary. “Do we have a blanket or something to protect the upholstery? It’s brand new, Joe!”

Joe looked perplexed -- obviously they hadn’t anticipated this eventuality -- and Sherlock would be damned if he’d give them his Belstaff, even for such a worthy cause. Instead, Sherlock dug in his pocket and pulled out the hundred pound note he’d planned to put in the collection plate.

He handed the note to Joe. “Have the car deep-cleaned, and keep anything left for the baby.”

Mary looked aghast but grateful, but Joe frowned and said, “No! Oh, no, you’ve done so much already.”

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock briskly. “Get your wife in that car and drive carefully -- it’s only five miles, but there’s snow and ice.”

“Yes, very well. Alright. Thank you!” Joe said, rather overcome. He accepted the note, shoving it into his coat pocket. “Let’s get you in the car, Mary,” he said, his voice somewhat steadier.

o-o

Molly slipped her hand into Sherlock’s as they stood watching the Vauxhall Zafira make its careful way out of the carpark and move off down the road.

“They’ll make it in time,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, yes,” Molly agreed. “Though it won’t be long. I was estimating her contractions at a little more than four minutes apart.”

“Hmm. Cutting it close, then.” He looked down at Molly. “Do you think they’ll name the baby Jesus?”

 He was not surprised when Molly gave him a swat on the shoulder, though she couldn’t help laughing, too.  

 

**o-o-o**

 

**_Star of wonder, star of night…_ **

 

It was nearly three in the morning before they were ready for bed. Sherlock’s mother had made hot brandied eggnog and a pot of tea, and they’d all sat about, discussing the Adventure of the Christmas Baby for few minutes while they sipped and warmed up.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were the first to finally retire, and when he heard the distant sound of their bedroom door closing, Sherlock stood up himself and held out a hand to Molly, saying, “I’m for bed, too. Care to join me?”

She allowed him to pull her to her feet, but then she turned to Alicia and Mycroft. “It’s been a wonderful evening, hasn’t it? I don’t recall a Christmas Eve I’ve enjoyed more.”

“Basically because you are always roped into working,” Sherlock said, with an edge to his voice.

Molly smiled. He had never minded that much in previous years, but now… “I expect I have enough seniority -- and personal reasons -- to request the holiday off in future, if it can be managed.”

“Mycroft will see to it,” said Alicia, with a placid smile. She was settled into a wing-back chair by the fire and didn’t appear inclined to move from her perch any time soon.

“I should hope Mycroft would see to that,” Sherlock said. “There has to be some advantage in having him for a big brother.”

Alicia shook her head, and Molly groaned. Mycroft might have his faults, and occasionally (rarely) make questionable decisions, but his devotion to his little brother could in no way be doubted -- as Sherlock knew very well.

But Mycroft merely said, “Very true, little brother. You may be _certain_ I’ll see to it.”

After that, Molly and Sherlock bid the other pair goodnight and a last Merry Christmas, and retired up the stairs.

Now Molly was standing by the bedroom window in her prim but pretty winter nightgown, looking out at the gently falling snow, when she heard Sherlock come back in from brushing his teeth. He closed the door and locked it as he had the previous afternoon, and she smiled and turned to him.

“I doubt you need to lock it so diligently. None of them would interrupt us.”

“Better not to chance it. It’s late, but you look exceedingly ravishable in that nightgown.” He came to stand beside her at the window. “What are you doing? Watching the snow fall?”

“Yes. And the stars. See how bright they are, over there where there’s a break in the clouds.”

“Ah!”

Sherlock slipped an arm about her, and she leaned against him -- just as young Mary had leaned against Joe. Molly mused, “Do you think she’s born yet?”

“She?”

“Little Noelle, or Angelica, or Holly.”

He laughed. “A girl? Maybe it’s Peter, or Paul. Or John.”

A new life, coming into the world nearby, at that very moment.

Molly turned within Sherlock’s embrace. Turned to her love, reaching up to put her arms around him. “Take me to bed, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

He smiled, and replied softly, “With the best will in the world, and all my heart, Margaret Elizabeth Hooper.”

And he did.

 

**o-o-o**

 

**_On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…_ **

 

It was nearly eleven in the morning by the time Molly roused, and then it was only because Sherlock was spooning her, pulling her close so that her back was curled against the front of him, snuffling at her neck, at the hollow between her jaw and her shoulder.

“You smell so _good_ ,” he murmured, his hands wandering over her demurely nightgowned breasts, and then lower.

“Mmm.” She wriggled back against him, savoring the moment, savoring his every touch, including the evidence of his regard that was nudging her bottom with increasing enthusiasm. However, when he began to ruche up the front of her gown and she opened her eyes a bit, she realized how late it was, and what day it was. “Sherlock!” she squeaked, stiffening. “It’s Christmas!”

“That’s what _I_ was just thinking,” he murmured with great satisfaction as he reached his goal and ran light, clever fingers over her bare, still slightly damp flesh (she hadn’t bothered trying to retrieve her special Christmas knickers after he’d removed them and sent them flying in the snowy, starlit night a few hours ago).

She chuckled, but turned over so that she was facing him and said, “But I have something for you!”

“I know,” he smiled, and kissed her, and now began to pull up the back of her gown.

She returned his kiss with brief fervor, then squirmed away and got out of bed.

“Where are you going?” he protested.

“To get your gift! I want you to have it first thing.”

“Why not second thing?” he grumped, but sat up a bit and arranged the covers more decently, though they were still somewhat tented as she returned to him, having fetched the gift from where she’d left it, under their little Christmas tree.

The gift was in a small, rectangular box, with holly-print wrap and red ribbon, but the tag was a familiar one, much the same as the one on that other gift, given so many years ago…

 

_Dearest Sherlock  
Love Molly xxx_

 

Sherlock frowned, and looked up at her warily.

“Open it!” she told him, firmly, trying not to smile. And indeed, perhaps this wasn’t the moment for smiles.

But he obeyed, his mouth set in a grim line, until the ribbon and wrapping were off, and he’d lifted the lid from the box and opened the folded tissue that held her gift. And then he stared, his mouth opening, his eyes growing wide, and the color fading from his cheeks. And finally he took his eyes from the pink-tipped stick with the little plus sign on it and raised them to hers. “Is this… are you…”

“Yes,” she said, watching him closely.

They had never used any sort of birth control, and had vaguely expected her to conceive in fairly short order. It was all in the plan. Neither of them was getting any younger, and both of them wanted few things more than a baby of their own -- Rosamund Watson had taught both Sherlock and Molly of the joy a child could bring, the way those innocent eyes made the world seem new again. They absolutely _needed_ that. But months had passed, and though they had tried not to worry, had gone ahead and started making plans for their wedding, the disappointment they had felt every time Molly’s time of the month had rolled around seemed increasingly devastating, and Molly had, only a few weeks ago, suggested that she might look into fertility tests -- just in case. And Sherlock had replied, “Yes. I’d considered that myself.”

There had been some tears shed that night, but only a few, and the tenderness and frequency with which they had made love in the subsequent weeks had only increased.

And now…

Sherlock gave a strange little laugh and blurted, “Thank God! You’ve no idea how much I was dreading trying to wank off in a doctor’s office.”

Molly laughed, but said, “Is that all you have to say, Father?”

He grew quite serious. “I… are you alright? How do you feel?”

“I feel fine,” she assured him. “Not much nausea, yet, though my breasts are a little tender.”

“I noticed,” he said. Then he frowned. “You were _drinking!_ ”

She smirked. “Was not.”

“You were! We had punch, and… and wine… and--”

“I had the children’s punch, and I took maybe two sips of wine. And I had tea instead of the spiked eggnog.”

“Oh.” He looked her up and down, still frowning, quite as though she were some rare specimen.

“I’m fine,” she said again. “More than fine, actually. Are you… _happy?_ ”

He met her eyes again. “God, yes! Molly, we have to move the wedding up.”

“What?” she exclaimed. They had planned the wedding for early spring, and had already decided on honeymooning in Italy.

“Next month, and hopefully the timing will work. I have the best idea!”   

 

**o-o-o**

 

**_Welcome Christmas while we stand, heart to heart and hand in hand…_ **

 

“Where is that boy?” Millicent asked no one in particular. “And Molly, too. They must have been very tired.” She saw Mycroft and Alicia exchange a satirical glance, and rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes. I am aware that they probably didn’t go right to sleep last night.”

Mycroft murmured, “Sherlock has many years to make up for, and I believe he’s been quite diligent in his efforts.”

Alicia chuckled, and even Vernet smiled.

And then, finally, there were sounds from upstairs, footsteps, doors opening and closing, a toilet flushing and the sound of the water running.

By the time the two latecomers appeared, the rest of the household was enjoying a second cup of coffee and savoring the scent of the Swedish Christmas Bread that was just about ready to come out of the oven.

“Merry Christmas!” said Molly, a beautiful red dressing gown thrown over her modest nightgown of snowy flannel, pink satin ribbon, and lace. Her hair was brushed but loose and shining, and her cheeks were pink with pleasure (and possibly a little embarrassment). “Sorry we’re so late.”

“No we’re not,” said Sherlock, equally beautiful, if looking a trifle more dissipated, his dark curls still a bit mussed, and his blue dressing gown negligently thrown over striped pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt.  “And even if we are late, I think you’ll forgive us when you hear about _our_ gift.” He glanced at the very moderate arrangement of presents under the tree in the corner and grinned at Molly. “Bet there’ll be a small _mountain_ under the tree next year, don’t you think?”

And Molly chuckled and turned just a bit pinker.

Vernet, who had poured some coffee for the two, now brought the mugs over and said, “Well, don’t keep us in suspense! What is this gift of which you speak?”

And Millicent clasped her hands together, suspecting… hoping…

“Just this,” Sherlock said. “We’re moving the wedding up, next month at St. Mary’s, if we can get the bans read in time. Just family and close friends, and a party here, afterwards, if you will allow it -- and if not, we can rent out The White Hart and have it there. And then… but you should tell them, Molly.”

Sherlock was looking at Molly with such warmth, such a look in his eyes… Millicent covered her mouth with one hand.

And Molly said, “Well… about seven months later -- if all goes well -- there will be another little Holmes born into the world.”

“Oh!” said Millicent. “Oh, my darlings!” And she went to them (or more or less staggered, actually, quite drunk on happiness) and embraced first Molly, and then her ridiculous, beautiful son before quite succumbing to tears.

o-o

Later, when the rest of the gifts had been opened, much coffee, fresh bread, fruit, and sliced ham had been consumed, and the turkey had just begun to roast to a turn, all of them were sitting around the big kitchen table, preparing vegetables and the like, and talking in a desultory fashion of this and that when Millicent looked up from the potato she was carefully peeling and said, “You know, I believe this is the best Christmas I’ve had in decades -- if not _the_ best, hands down.” And she looked at her children – all those present, at least, and that by the grace of God -- and found them all smiling at her.

And lastly, her gaze settled on that of her dear husband, seated at the opposite end of the table, and he nodded, and smiled, too, with that quiet complacence that came of a whimsical, sometimes nonsensical, yet always strengthening faith in Providence, and said, “Do you know, Mother, I believe I have to agree.”

~.~

 


End file.
